Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zeph is not woken up by the sunlight that filters through his curtains—rather, he’s stirred into consciousness by lazy, warm kisses that brush over the freckles on his cheeks. He gives a soft laugh in reply, a hand searching for a mess of sleep-tousled hair to drift through. Alfyn’s breath is warm against his skin, and as his beard tickles against Zeph’s neck, he snorts another laugh into the spring air. 

A gentle breeze blows through their open window, smelling of sweet waterblooms. It’s one of the telltale signs spring has graced Clearbrook, morning frost no longer a worry for the flowers they’ve planted in their garden. If Zeph focuses just enough, he can catch the scent of celandines, one of Alfyn’s favorites. While Alfyn does appreciate their use in some of his tonics, he prefers their meaning, claiming they’re a symbol of all the happiness he and Zeph have yet to experience.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” Alfyn’s sleepy voice is one of his favorites, Zeph thinks. It’s sweet and warm like honey, that much better flavored with kisses. 

He shifts slightly against the other man, seeking a few places for his own lips to travel. They decide on Alfyn’s brow, his nose and cheeks, then finally to his lips. Alfyn rests one of his hands at the back of Zeph’s head as he snakes an arm around his waist, ensuring his source of warmth isn’t budging an inch. It’s not as if Zeph’s foolish enough to deny his husband affection in the morning, anyway. Zeph keeps his hands stationed in Alfyn’s bedhead, seeing no reason to not make it even messier. 

“Good morning, Alf.” Gods, the way he’s nearly breathless upon waking up—and it’s not even due to the stream of kisses he’s been given. Alfyn’s eyes reflect the sunlight as he slowly opens them, warm and inviting and home. Really, there isn’t any other option but to kiss him silly until they’re both fully awake.

Alfyn gives him a soft smile, looking smitten as ever as he traces his thumb across the bridge of Zeph’s nose. “Did I ever tell ya how beautiful you look in the morning?”

“I think I lost count after the first week we started waking up like this,” Zeph returns his fond gaze. “You look handsome as ever.” 

They did share a bed often as children; Zeph recalls staying close by back when Alfyn was sick, offering all the comfort possible. It’s far different as lovers, how they return to the same bed at day’s end, waking up to each other’s kisses and sweet nothings. There wasn’t an ounce of nervousness between them, how easy it felt to whisper an, “I love you” against Alfyn’s lips before drifting off into a cozy slumber.

“I know we oughta get up soon, but a few more kisses can’t hurt, I reckon.” Clearbrook’s best apothecaries aren’t slackers, but they can’t deny themselves a few extra moments to themselves in their bedroom, bathed in the warm spring sun.

Chapter Text

Therion discovers that he’s running out of excuses to leave Bolderfall. 

At first, he tells Cordelia and Heathcote he still has some traveling to do. When he returns two years later, Cordelia’s more than delighted to see him, and hardly hesitates to throw her arms around him in an embrace. He bristled, but didn't find himself pushing her away, but he didn't return the hug either.

He didn’t want that , he fed his mind. Cordelia should be saving this for someone else. Someone better. It was a weak justification at best, and it made it no easier to swallow the flash of hurt on her face when he turned away from Ravus Manor once more.

A wanderer doesn’t have a home, he doesn’t want to settle down, they’re all tried and true adages he’s waved off her concerns with. He’s not about to tell himself these blatant lies, because he’s Therion, and when’s the last time he ever had a home? When has he ever been honest with himself? It took long enough to allow himself friendships and trust, and it’s been far long enough since he left Darius’ body in that frostbitten cathedral.

If he has to pick a home, some fancy manor isn’t the worst choice, but it’s not what he wants. That lifestyle is far from his own, even if he has no idea how Cordelia and Heathcote live on the daily. He had to tell himself she isn’t lonely, that she doesn’t look at him like that whenever he fades into the harsh sunlight on the bluffs.

He idly pokes at a small campfire he’s made, twirling the core of an apple in between his fingers. His thoughts drift back to Ravus Manor, how if he took Cordelia up on her many offers, he’d be eating a full meal, under a roof, a bed to sleep in to follow. He’d wake up feeling safe, and gods, when’s the last time he had that? With his friends ?

A pang of something—jealousy, loneliness, he doesn’t even know—gnaws at his core. Therion thinks of how everyone else has gone and found their happy endings, and here he is staring at an apple core in something of frustration at his own stupidity. 

He doesn’t know why he can’t force himself to just say yes. 

Chapter Text

If there’s one man Kit’s faith shall never waver from, it is their father. Despite the years they have been apart, how the edges of his face fuzz in their memory, Kit continues to believe in him. 

Twelve years have passed since they were left with the late Lord Ravus in Bolderfall, clinging to a promise of a soon return, and that they shall be safe here. They held no need to look upon him with such a tearful expression, their father had said, brushing hair behind their ear. All Kit had done in reply was nod, their little hand wound around Heathcote’s, watching as Graham’s figure had blinked out of view.

Days melted into weeks, to months, to years. Kit wasn’t necessarily fond of leaving Cordelia to her own devices, especially after she’d lost her parents. Maybe they should have stayed longer, and maybe in departing Bolderfall they missed the chance to learn of their father’s whereabouts. However, it was foolish to think that, and thus Kit pressed on.

They've faced kindness on his path, and perhaps that is one reason they continue to tarry with the Impresario and the others. The traveler who offered them that Healing Grape did more than words could say, reminding them of the very faith their father had in others, how a bond could be forged even between two strangers. When coming upon that traveler once more—in a group of eight, now—they lead them towards a troupe traveling about the continent, wishing them good fortune on their journey.

A journey that seems endless, a decision made of their own hand. Their father cannot be dead if the journey to seek him out continues. Their father cannot have abandoned them if they can't find the answer they're terrified to seek. They hate to think of him so cruel, so heartless… but in their worst moments, what are they led to believe without a single letter for so long? After the last words they read were a promise of his return?

"I’m coming back, dear Kit. We can mourn your mother together, and begin to heal once I am with you once more.”  

“Where are you, father…?” Kit wipes their hands on the paint-stained rag in their lap, sighing as they look at the blue sign before them. It’s bright as the ocean, gleaming in the sunlight, bearing the name of this troupe that’s given them a home. It’s something to take pride in, and while they are able to admire such work, Kit feels a familiar thickness form in the back of their throat. 

They register the Impresario’s words of kindness, how they’re fortunate to have such a talented artist in their ranks. Kit’s presence has been nothing but a blessing, wherever they may go next, joy is sure to follow.

Kit doesn’t realize they're crying until the Impresario’s voice manages to push through the waves of pain gripping their heart.

“Are you well, Kit?” He frowns. “I hope I have not overwhelmed you with my words. You spoke of having places to travel, and I know I cannot keep you from finding them.”

“...Might I stay with you longer?” Kit wrings the rag between their hands. “I… I don’t wish to leave just yet.”

“But of course.” He places an arm around Kit’s shoulder, worried expression still upon his face. “The troupe is your family for as long as is needed, Kit. You need not bid farewell so soon.”

Another weak sniffle leaves Kit as they're led back into the tent, trembling hands clutching the worn cloak around their shoulders.

I’m sorry, father, they think as the other members come to offer their comforts, I promise I’ll find you one day.   

Chapter Text

If there’s one positive there’s to say about Quarrycrest, it’s that the town didn’t suffer through the bitter cold of the Highlands. Winters in the Cliftlands were dry and mild, and only at night did the cold threaten to seep through one’s bones. In Stonegard, it snaps her awake. Odette slowly opens one eye to see grey light filter through the windows of their quarters, snowflakes stuck to its edges. 

Their beloved cat remains curled in a ball at the foot of their bed, and Odette can’t believe she’s ready to be jealous of the thick winter coat Dreisang’s gotten to deal with this ridiculous weather. He’s complained far less about the cold than Odette has, which is impressive, given he’s about the loudest cat in all of Orsterra.

“Cyrus,” she mumbles, burying herself under the covers, “it’s cold .”

“It is snowing, my dear.” He gives a soft laugh, running a warm hand down her back. It’s a blessing that he’s able to use his fire magic in situations such as these. “I can only wager your body is still used to the dry heat of the Cliftlands.”

She graces him with a displeased groan, curling in closer. At least they aren’t in the Frostlands; she may have frozen to the bedsheets there. “Was it that obvious? Why else would I be clinging to you like this?”

“And here I thought it was because we enjoyed huddling close in bed, no matter the temperature.” For someone who’s just woken up, she wagers, he’s awfully witty. “Was I wrong to presume such a factor?”

Odette snorts, too cold to move her hand to flick him in the forehead. “Don’t act so high and mighty because you can warm yourself with fire magic, dear.”

“You act as if I am not imparting such fortune on yourself!” Cyrus presses his hand to her cheek next, and Odette swears she’s to become a cat the way she melts against it, offering a satisfied noise. “It is an honor to offer you these comforts in these truly trying times.”

Demons take her, she’s in love with an idiot. Odette gives him a tighter squeeze, pressing her face against his chest. “We’re not getting out of bed until I’m warm.” 

“What a terrible fate to befall us,” Cyrus hums, “I suppose I shall just have to keep you close until then.”

Chapter Text

“Storms are rather wonderful to listen to as you read, aren’t they?” 

He’s about half asleep when Cordelia asks this. It’s no insult to what they’re reading, or Cordelia herself, Therion just happens to find himself comfortable. The only lights in their quarters are the muted greys from the thick clouds hanging low above the manor, mixing with the flickering candlelight by their bedside. A blanket hangs around both their shoulders, forming a cozy nest around the lovebirds. 

“I’ve never given them much thought.” Before this, storms were dangerous. You weren’t to be caught in them if you wanted a chance of surviving in the wild for gods know how long. “I’m guessing you’ve always been a fan.”

She flips to the next page with a hum. “In more recent years. As a child, I was startled by the lighting, the loud noises… but the fear left me when my father began to read with me. Heathcote was glad to uphold the tradition, and now I have you, my dear Therion.”

“...Are you comparing me to Heathcote?” Therion knows the sentiment is what matters here, but why ignore a chance to make fun of the world’s oldest butler? “I’m insulted, Cordelia.”

“Oh, hush.” She giggles, leaning over to press a kiss against his cheek. “I’m happy to share these moments with you.”

He noses into her hair, brushing his fingers over her hand. Thunder rumbles low in the distance as her hand turns to wrap around his. There’s a part of Therion that still isn’t quite used to this, little touches and bouts of affection, all normal and something he dares to label as wonderful. It’s been a rather long journey to get here, years of growing closer and pushing around feelings, but Therion’s glad to have walked this road all the same.

As he listens to the soft rumble of thunder once more, he allows himself to take a deep breath, relaxing further against Cordelia. The pitter-patter of rain against their windows draws him closer to a nap, something he’s glad to welcome. It’s safe to fall asleep when it rains now, thanks to her.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, shifting to lean against her shoulder, “I am too.”

Chapter Text

“We’ve made quite the hike, Olberic,” Erhardt comments as they pass another thick swath of trees, “am I to believe you’ve suddenly gained a fondness for picnics, and that explains our venture to this hill so far from our home?”

“I did not take you as the type to complain so readily.” Olberic regards this statement casually, patting the wicker basket below his arm. “I thought you would find this gesture romantic.”

Erhardt offers a snort of amusement. “Since when have you and ‘romantic gesture’ held a place within the same sentence?”

“You wound me with such words, my beloved.” Erhardt makes a soft noise in reply. “I have grown rather fond of them. Mayhap you can surmise as to why.”

“To think I would grow unable to read your strikes after all these years…” Erhardt breathes a soft laugh as they come upon the clearing. Warm sunset paints the grass in hues of reds and oranges, accented with gentle pinks. “I suppose being kept on my toes is hardly anything to find fault with.”

Olberic sets the basket down, and is quick to brush some of Erhardt’s hair behind his ear with a fond smile. “I do enjoy surprising you.” 

After they exchange a kiss, the pair works to unpack the basket. They use one of Olberic’s old duvets to sit on, setting out a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a meat pie that Erhardt’s certain he procured from the tavern. It’s not as if Olberic’s cooking skills are less to be desired, but it’s far from the usual fare they’ve had at home.

“I recall having these with ale back in our days as knights,” he says as Olberic pours him a glass. 

“I did not think it would travel well.” Olberic sets the bottle down, and raises his glass towards him. “To us, Erhardt. ...And to what I have to ask of you.”

He takes a sip of wine, expression curious. Either his eyes are playing tricks on him, or Olberic appears to be nervous. “To us,” he adds softly, barely audible above the clink of their glasses. 

“Erhardt… while there lies a speech I could offer you, I feel as if getting to the point would stay my nerves.” He sets down his glass. “The grandest of words would be unable to capture what I feel towards you. Surely you are aware that our reunion was a blessing, and to finally love as we please is the finest purpose we have sought. We have lost much, and yet gained just as much all the very same.”

Erhardt finds that his heart is beating rapidly in his chest.

“Your last name… it may have been lost to time, and if you would take the Eisenberg name… then do me the honor of marrying me, Erhardt.” Olberic takes out a small, silver band from his pocket, holding it towards him. “If you would have me, that is.”

He splutters, face bright red. “Gods—Olberic, I—” Erhardt was taken here so Olberic could propose to him. “To have the Eisenberg name become my own after so many years of being with each other—” Accept, you godsdamned fool— “Yes—I—gods, yes—! ”

The ring is on his finger but in a flash, Olberic’s lips against his own to follow. Erhardt’s unsure of whose tears come first, but it hardly matters; this happiness is something they have craved for years. 

“Erhardt Eisenberg,” he whispers, “what a fine name it shall be.” He lifts Erhardt’s hands to his lips, placing a kiss over the ring. “We are to be husbands, my beloved.”      

“Husbands,” he repeats the sentiment, a breathless laugh upon his lips, “I will finally hold the honor of calling you my husband. I believe I do not know what else to say. You… you’ve managed me speechless.”

“We need not words, then.” Olberic coasts a hand through his hair as it reflects the sunset upon it. “Mayhap we shall share in affections until you find them.”

Erhardt’s laugh is bubbly and warm, drunk on the love they’ve fostered. “Aye. That sounds a fine plan to me.”

Olberic’s kisses pepper against his neck and face, and somehow they’re conscientious enough of the wine to not knock it over as they topple over on the grass. Erhardt’s hair fans out below him like a halo, radiant and bright, yet incomparable to the light inside his heart. This is news to share with Cobbleston, with the companions Olberic’s met he is fortunate to consider his own as well, but all that matters tonight is the man above him, and the celebrations they are to share.

Chapter Text

“Cyrus, for the umpteenth time,” Therion sets his tankard on the table with a thunk for emphasis, “I do not have any interest in learning more magic.”

“But you possess such untapped potential, Therion! Such a capability to go beyond the simple fire you are able to conjure!” Even when intoxicated, Therion finds Cyrus as irritating as ever. He’s not even slurring his words yet, the bastard. “Imagine what you could do if you put your mind to scholarly pursuits!”

Therion snorts, brow furrowed. “I’d rather do literally anything else.”

Cyrus possesses the audacity to scoff towards him. “You act as if one lecture is tantamount to torture.”

“Yours certainly are,” he mumbles over the rim of his tankard. It’s not as quiet as he thinks, considering the look of insult on Cyrus’ face grows. Also, he hears a faint “oooh” from Alfyn, who’s clearly in his cups as well.

“I argue you would find them rather enlightening, I shall have you know. Knowledge is a precious gift to be shared, and I am rather curious as to how you came to use fire magic in the first place.” Therion’s discovering that ale makes Cyrus talk even more. Great. “Surely it was used for survival, I wager, but it is a skill you continue to use! Do you not wish to add to your repertoire?”

He sighs in annoyance. “How is magic going to help me steal ?”  

“Now, now,” Cyrus waves a hand, “I did not say it would be for such a purpose. I simply propose you would be happy to learn of it, and think of ways to apply it to your own trade. Would that not be the logical outcome of pursuing magic?”

Therion swears he’s this close to leaving, or swear to never drink again as long as Cyrus is involved. “No.”

“No?” Cyrus balks. “That… that is all you have to say in response to my offer?”

Oh goody. Now he’s going to be even more insistent. Too bad. “Yep.”

As Cyrus launches himself into another lecture, much to Therion’s chagrin, Olberic shakes his head with a sigh. “Should we not stop them?”

“Are you kiddin’?” Alfyn snorts a laugh. “We get our drinks and a show, Olberic! I don’t think I’ve seen the professor get this uppity before!” 

He blinks in response. “Do you think it wise for their argument to continue?”

“There’s nothin’ to worry ‘bout,” Alfyn takes another sip of ale, “...maybe for Therion’s sanity, but that’s all.” 

“Let us hope they recall this tomorrow morning, then.” Olberic glances towards the two. “...Just so they do not repeat such actions in the future.”

Chapter Text

“The cold doesn’t seem so bad tonight, does it?” 

It’s a quiet night in Flamesgrace, any sound swallowed up by the gentle snowfall. Primrose has adjusted to it rather well, her dancer’s garb replaced with warm furs and thick fabrics. It’s far more tolerable with someone at your side, and a bonus if you happen to be in love with them. Ophilia carries all of Flamesgrace’s warmth in her gentle heart, Primrose thinks, even when it weighs heavy in her chest. 

Aelfric’s flame bathes them in a gentle blue light as they sway, Ophilia’s head nestled into her shoulder. She’s more quiet tonight, but under these circumstances, it’s terribly hard to blame her. 

One year has passed since the Archbishop’s death. Once more in Lianna’s stead has Ophilia taken the mantle, and as the one who performed the Kindling, there were no arguments to be had. Lianna’s still working to regain the trust of others, and Primrose sees how it wears on Ophilia for her dear sister to be gazed at with such judgmental eyes. 

“We can check on her after this dance, if you’d like.” Primrose gives her gloved hand a squeeze. 

“It’s alright.” Ophilia shakes her head. “I know Anna would want to be alone tonight… sometimes, giving someone space is just as important as giving them comfort.”

“As long as you’re certain, dear.” She tilts Ophilia’s chin upward with her other hand, joining their lips together as their dance continues.

Primrose knows this is the only moment she’ll ever enjoy dancing for another. It’s no longer for survival or for the pleasure of others—it’s for the woman she loves, for the smile she wears.

“I can’t wait to marry you,” Ophilia whispers as they part, “you’ll be even more beautiful than the very cathedral we’re in.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that?” She asks with a smile. “Your beauty will burn brighter than the Sacred Flame itself.”

“Primrose!” Her cheeks glow a warm pink, unable to hold back a fit of laughter. “You can’t just… say that!”

Emboldened by her reaction, Primrose twirls her with a laugh, quick to give Ophilia a few more kisses once she’s back in her hold. “Who’s going to hear us, hmm?” This earns another giggle of delight, warm enough to melt the snow that sticks to the cathedral’s rooftop.

Chapter Text

Erhardt finds himself in a room he does not recognize, but it is all for the better. The meager coin on his person buys him safety for the night, and that is all he requires. 

He’s never taken the time to study the inns he’s slept in. They’re tucked away in tiny villages in Orsterra, each with their own stories, he’s certain. In another life, Erhardt may have entertained himself with their tales, sitting with the innkeeper’s family during supper, hands around a tankard of ale.

Kingslayers are not granted such a privilege, however, and Erhardt figures he is far better left to his own devices. 

He hides his face under a worn cloak, once long hair hacked into awkward, shorn angles that tickle his shoulders. There’s not much to do in disguising his voice, but he’s far from Hornburg, the Black Brotherhood, Olberic— 

He closes his eyes, breath in his throat. It’s cold tonight. His fingers grip the bed sheets, fumbling for an anchor in the darkness, something to remind himself of this fanciful notion of safety he’s built for himself.

A lie it may be, but it’s all Erhardt seems to be good at these days.

In the darkness, Erhardt is unable to locate the hearth, which is to remain unlit. He does not have to look at himself, this room, this life he thrust upon himself—and for what? A revenge that left him empty, that snuffed out the embers of the Blazing Blade of Hornburg, leaving him no more than ashes in the wind? 

He does not have to think about fire, how it takes and it takes, devouring all in its path. He does not have to think about Grynd, how it is nothing more than a memory, a word upon his lips. He does not have to recall his cries and how they razed louder than the flames.

He does not have to think about Hornburg.

He does not have to think about Olberic.

In the darkness, Erhardt can pretend he is happy with himself.

Chapter Text

“Alfyn?” The question starts off innocent as ever as Mercedes taps his shoulder. “Who’s your new friend?”

He follows the direction she’s pointing in, unsure of how to exactly react when Vanessa, of all people, comes into focus. 

“She’s awfully pretty,” Mercedes continues casually, acting as if she isn’t ruining the poor man’s day. “When did she arrive in Clearbrook?”

“Ah—” Alfyn doesn’t quite know if he can break her poor heart by telling her Vanessa used to swindle good people out of their leaves, and made a mockery of his trade. “She’s, ah… new here. Tryin’ to start a new life and make a better name for herself.” 

“How commendable!” Mercedes’ eyes light up. “How long has she been assisting you and Zeph?”

Alfyn tries not to think about the horror poor Zeph is about to feel at hearing his other childhood friend wants to ask out Vanessa Hysel of all people. “Been here for ‘bout a few weeks now, I reckon.”

Mercedes sets her book to the side, full of determination Alfyn wishes was for any other single girl in their village. “I’m going to talk to her, then! The poor girl seems as though she hasn’t made any other friends here.” With this statement made, Alfyn is forced to watch as she heads over to the bench where Vanessa’s working on mixing up a few salves.

Mercedes leans forward, placing her elbows on the counter with a polite smile as she looks up towards Vanessa. “Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier! I’m Mercedes, a friend of Alfyn and Zeph’s. I heard you were new to Clearbrook!”

“Uh…” Vanessa looks just as surprised by this as she quickly throws a glance towards Alfyn. “The name’s Vanessa.”

“Have you enjoyed your time here so far?” Mercedes twirls some loose hair around her finger. “I moved to Atlasdam some years ago, but I’ve always found the Riverlands so beautiful.”

“Alf?” Zeph’s worried voice pulls him away from the disaster unfolding before them. “What is happening?”

“Mercedes thinks Vanessa’s a fine lookin’ gal, and…” He sighs, patting Zeph’s back. “You did say you wanted her to find a sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

It’s easy—it’s far too easy. It’s so pathetically easy, Mattias wants to laugh and laugh with every fool he comes across, and Orsterra is nary short of them. Disguising himself as a simple trader, forging a role within the consortium—these graces fall into his hands like snowflakes. All Mattias has to do is share his passion for trade, how wonderful it is to see Orsterra through a merchant’s eyes. The people feed on his lies like a greedy cait, suspicion far from their thoughts. 

There’s a smile on his face, jovial and cruel, as he twirls the small bottle of poison between his fingers. Once those troublesome girls leave the Archbishop’s side, his life is to be surrendered to Galdera, the world’s true god. He has to be patient, he knows, but to hear sermons and praises in the false god’s name brings nothing but disdain. They’re fools, nothing but fools, seeking salvation from one who shall never offer it. 

That blue flame burns far too bright, too blinding in its lies. That damnable flame, how it needs to be bathed in black, casting the darkness he’s craved… but he knows eagerness shall bring foolishness, and he cannot fall short after coming so far. He must remember himself, remember Simeon, remember Galdera and all that shall come afterward. 

“Will it not be delicious when they fall?” He asks, voice a whisper as he leans back on the inn bed he’s been so graciously given. “Perhaps they shall be wise and follow my words. It would make their deaths that much more worthy.”

He closes his eyes, and imagines the world gripped in dark flame. He imagines the throne he and Simeon shall sit upon as Galdera washes over Orsterra like a wave crashing upon the shore. It shall be the sweetest vision he’s ever witnessed, a world worthy of their own designs. The wait has been long, but oh, it shall be worth it.

Mattias smiles at the vial of poison again, fond, as a lover would admire their paramour.

“I do wonder how you fare in Everhold,” he murmurs, “I look forward to the play that you have written, Simeon.” 

Chapter Text

“Mama, the sun hasn’t risen yet…” H’aanit is greeted by a gentle whine from a shifting mass under the blankets. “Doen I haveth to rise so early…?”

It is quite unfair for one to stir a child so early from their sleep, H’aanit knows, but she’s willing to say this is a special occasion. She had waited until H’aamah was old enough to enjoy this moment, and now that the time has come, a youthful eagerness stirs within her chest. 

“I promise this be worth thy early’s rising, little sapling.” H’aanit reaches over to grab the covers, ready to pull them back. “Thou may rest as needed afterward.”

A grunt comes from the blankets next. Clearly she’ll have to do more convincing; perhaps it’s time to put a new skill of hers to the test.

“Does thou not wish to see thy lovely bird I haven found?” In the dim candlelight of the room, H’aanit sees a mess of red hair poke out of the covers. “Tis a rare sight to behold.”

After a dramatically long yawn, H’aamah finally sits up. She blinks sleepy eyes towards H’aanit, rubbing at them. “How is thou so sure the bird hath not flown away?”

The gasp H’aanit offers is one Z’aanta would find pride in. “Doth not trust my instincts? Thou wounds me, little sapling.”

“Thou sound like grandpapa,” H’aamah remarks as she shuffles over to H’aanit, clearly begging to be picked up. 

She does hold a point, and it’s one H’aanit knows Z’aanta will laud over her for many moons. It’s hard to find fault in his actions, as this feeling must be the same one he held when raising her. H’aanit collects her daughter—she is clearly more than just an apprentice—into one arm, careful as she picks up the candlestick in her other hand. She’s quiet while walking through their home, not wishing to wake Z’aanta, although it’s rather impossible to be louder than the man’s snoring.

“What kind of bird is it?” H’aamah asks as they step out into the cool, early morning air.

“It shall remain a surprise.” H’aanit ensures one of her old furs is tightly wrapped around H’aamah’s shoulders before they venture further. “Perhaps thou can thinketh this as a test of thy skills.”

Her cheeks puff out in a pout as she grumbles, nestling further into her mother’s shoulder. “Can it be after sunrise next time?”

“Surely thou remember my words about nature.” They exit S’waarki’s gates, H’aamah’s curious gaze peering into each tree they pass. “No matter how good a hunter may be, thou remain unable to change its tide. If this bird continues to appear before thy sun, then we are to heed its call.”

“I knowen this, mother.” There’s an attempt at hiding a yawn, poorly hidden as it may be. “...My bed just happens to be soft.”

A hearty, warm laugh leaves H’aanit as she leads the pair further up the path. They cross a small break in the trees, giving them the view of the sky above. She’s been to this clearing in the past rather often, and knows it is an important part of the Woodlands to pass to H’aamah, just as Z’aanta did for her in the past. A gentle breeze drifts by, carrying the scent of damp earth and cool pine. No matter the years that have come to pass, H’aanit knows she’ll never tire of how at peace this makes her feel.

“Looken there, little sapling.” H’aanit guides her finger towards the sky, the way the trees part. 

There lies no bird for them to admire, but something far more grand instead that makes H’aamah’s eyes widen, mouth gaping in awe.

A brilliant sunrise peeks over the tops of the trees, warm reds and pinks sweeping across their leaves. The color drips down the branches like paint, nature its finest canvas to work upon. There lies no clouds in the sky, the full brilliancy of the colors shining further as the sun continues to grace them. 

“Your grandpapa showed me the same sight, when I was your age,” H’aanit says, a kiss to the side of H’aamah’s head to follow, “and I wished for you to seen the very same.”

Chapter Text

There are several truths Baltazar is acutely aware of, and they all lead to the same conclusion: he is not making it to the island alive, and his regrets are to be cast to the waves.

Baltazar always considered himself a confident man, headstrong, knowing the sea as intimately as any sailor should. Her tides were grave today, roaring along with the thunder, spraying cold foam into the air as it began to tear at his ship. While Baltzar could give a dry laugh, saying he could’ve built her out of stronger materials, there’s only so much one can do in such a storm.

This quite isn’t the way he planned to die, but hey, it’s not as if he was in the business of being a fortune teller. He at least fancied the idea of his death being less embarrassing than being swallowed by the waves, but it’s not as if he can afford to be particular about this matter.

Maybe he’ll be pitied by a bard or two, so there’s that.  

His ship creaks and groans as a wave crashes against it. The sound is a captain’s worst nightmare, louder in his ears than the drumming of his heart. Winds bite through his sails, through skin. Baltazar’s hands are worn from the tight grip around the rope that controls the sails, even if he realizes taking control is futile. He’s not long for this world, and thought hangs low and heavy in his chest.

Regrets come at him, howling louder than the winds. Baltazar can only hope they’re carried to shore. To Leon. Gods, Leon. The words he has for that man outnumber every grain of sand upon every shore they’ve docked their ships upon. He’s his rival. He’s one of the finest captains to sail the seas. He’s brilliant. He’s wise. He’s got a remarkable eye for treasures.

He’s got golden hair that shines brilliantly under the sun, far more radiant and brighter than its rays. The salty spray of the sea smells intoxicating off his sun-kissed skin. His eyes shine far brighter than any treasure Baltazar ever laid his eye upon. He’s sure, had the chance ever graced him, ale would taste far finer off his lips.

Demons take him, is he a fool.

“Sorry I won’t get to hear ‘bout your greatest treasure, mate.” Baltazar peers towards blackened skies, letting the rain wash over his skin. “...And thanks, for bein’ mine.”

Chapter Text

The second Mattias finds himself in Simeon’s chambers, his lips are quick to chase down his throat, teeth grazing the mark of the crow upon his neck. He’s been away from Everhold for far too long, and in this case, he’s quick to paint himself as an impatient man.

“I have missed your sermons, my savior.” Simeon’s hands rest on his waist, clearly satisfied with the events that are unfolding. “And it is rather evident you remain insatiable as ever. Am I not to receive a report with how you are progressing with the black flame?”

“I shall educate you on such matters later,” he whispers, kisses trailing up Simeon’s jaw, “I assure you the wait shall be worth it, dear puppet master.”

“Will it?” His hands are quick to work their way to the shoulders of Mattias’ jacket, tugging them downwards. “I expect you to show me, then.”

It’s something Mattias can never explain—or more so, he chooses to shove it under the guise of lust. His desire for Simeon is physical and nothing more; surely he didn’t miss the man himself. All Mattias needs from Simeon is pleasure, raw and carnal, the other man’s kisses sweeter than those of the accurst flame. Yet, something had bid him to travel to Everhold amidst this job of his. Simeon, his sweet puppet master, the man he seeks oblivion with, the only one he wishes to see once the world is awash in ruin. 

There certainly isn’t a pang in his chest, unfamiliar and gnawing, that tells him there’s another reason he and Simeon hold each other after chasing their pleasures. 

His lips crash against Simeon’s once more, a needy noise leaving his throat as his fingers work to pull that too-soft silver hair from his braid. There’s a moan that follows as Simeon’s teeth graze his lower lip, and Mattias is all too pliant to part them. Mattias’ tongue slips into Simeon’s mouth, eager to breathe his name into his mouth, eager to further their desire.

“I wonder what has you so eager today, dear Mattias.” His fingers curl through soft brown hair, eyes lidded. “But I am not one to deny the show you are about to offer.”

Mattias brings their lips together once more, deciding there lies no sweeter beginning to have.

Chapter Text

Cordelia Ravus considers herself a rather fortunate woman. This feels a rather lofty claim to make, given a year ago, the only people she trusted were Heathcote and her childhood friend Noa. Sure, there were the guards in Ravus Manor, but it’s not as if she’s given them any special treatment. 

It’s not as if Cordelia expected herself to bond with the wayward thief and the gaggle of companions (who he insisted weren’t his friends, but the tall, scraggly apothecary and blonde cleric never believed such sentiments) set to retrieve the Dragonstones. Each subsequent return earned a longer visit, and after they were all returned, Therion had lingered for the rest of the day. Cordelia had spent the day eagerly sharing stories with Tressa about Noa, learning of all the people Alfyn and Ophilia saved. She listened to Cyrus’ stories, the wisdom Olberic had to share, H’aanit’s exciting tales of the hunt. She found consolation in Primrose, who had risen above her hurt and shame, and had come out a happier woman for it all.

Without a doubt, they are the most inspirational people Cordelia’s had the honor to come across. They far outdo the heroes in every book she’s read, every story she’s written. Perhaps she’ll write a tale honoring their accomplishments one day, as gratitude for the kindness they’ve given her.

There’s a smile on her lips as she taps her quill against it, a letter to Noa in the works. The anniversary of her parents death lingers, but it seems far easier to face it, knowing she’s less alone than before. She has people who care for her well being, and it’s shown in the small pile on her desk.

There are letters from Tressa, Ophilia and Primrose to read, and her heart tells her more are to arrive. Cordelia knows these travelers still have lives to lead, new journeys to tread, and yet the lady of House Ravus has not left their thoughts. Though Heathcote seems to believe otherwise, she has an inkling that a certain thief’s words may find their way to her desk.

It’s a blessed thing, to carry hope in her heart once more. Orsterra is vast, and it’s abundantly clear the impact these eight people plan to leave on it. Alfyn and Zeph—who Cordelia believes is his love, the way the apothecary spoke of him—are to help the sick, money never to be an object. Olberic and Primrose have people they wish to protect, to ensure they never hurt again. Cyrus has knowledge to spread, the world to be his eager students. H’aanit has her village to care for, Ophilia her family and Flamesgrace, Tressa the world to see… 

The world feels brighter now, and Cordelia is to be a part of its growth.  

Chapter Text

Victor’s Hollow carries all manners of memories for Leon Bastralle—good, bad, and every in between man can think of. It's a place he called home some years ago; his new one is the sea and wherever it deems to take him. Despite this all, if he focuses hard enough, he can envision himself as a child, running through the streets with Baltazar close behind. They may be far kinder to him now, but it hardly makes them less lonely.

Pocketing himself in the corner of the tavern hardly assists matters, but Leon believes company would do little to assist the heaviness in his chest. Never did he expect that old map to come into his purview once more, nor the ache that accompanied it. 

It’s not his to mourn, as he left Baltazar’s memento in the hands of that young lass. Leon carries his memory with his old ship, his philosophies, living a new life as an honest merchant, just as he wanted. When nights are clear, stars gleaming like the Eldrite they sought, Leon wonders if Baltzar is looking down on him with a fond smile.  

Leon swirls the remaining ale in his tankard. It’s far more bitter than it’s been in time’s past. The tavern’s rabble around him swirls into meaningless white noise; usually he’s glad to listen to the tales of others, perhaps learning something new from a journey that isn’t his own. While the lass and her companions have done a fair job of this, a good merchant must have as much knowledge of the land as leaves in his coffers. Yet here he sits, unable to focus, mind stuck on that map Leon swore he bid farewell to.

He’d lost that race, after all. Leon held no right to seek out the Eldrite. 

He sets the tankard onto the counter as one hand reaches into his pocket, finger tracing the outline of a small, black band. Leon supposes he’s no right to hold onto this either, but perhaps he’s the one waylaid by sentiment nowadays. Despite how he told himself he'd get rid of this years ago, to stop clinging to threads of the past, he could never will himself to do so.

No matter who had won that day, he muses as he brings the band into view, I think I would’ve given this to you.

“Who’s the lucky one, eh?” The tavernkeep gives Leon a smile as they run a rag over the inside of an empty tankard. “Hopin’ the ale will help calm the nerves?”

Leon’s lucky he’s able to guard his expression in the tavern’s dim light. “Something like that. I just haven’t found the perfect moment, is all.”

“I’m sure ya got nothin’ to fret over,” they continue, unaware of the twisting in Leon’s chest, “that be quite the lovely band ya got there. Simple as it may be, it shows yer care.”

He forces himself to smile. Had life been kinder, he wonders if Baltazar would’ve thought the same. “I wouldn’t have done any less for them. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the sentiment.”

When the tavernkeep claps Leon’s shoulder, he swears he may shatter under it. “Make sure to report back with the news when ye can. Not every day I get to witness a proposal waitin’ to happen.” Another patron calls from the end of the bar, and they give Leon a friendly smile and wave before heading over.

He swallows the remainder of his ale in a single gulp, and forces himself to pocket the band without a second thought.

Chapter Text

The Cliftlands are hot. Tressa likes to believe she’s well acclimated with the heat, given she’s lived in Rippletide all her life. Summers there bring scorching skies and white-hot sands, but even then, there’s a beautiful sea breeze to cut through the stifling air. She didn’t adjust during their brief moment in Bolderfall (and it leaves her wondering how stupid Therion isn’t sweating to death), and Quarrycrest?

It’s worse. Way worse. Tressa didn’t know air came this dry. The only person here who seems immune to it is the professor, and that’s because he keeps talking about Odette this and Odette that, and Tressa has to wonder how the heck he hasn’t realized he likes her yet. Cyrus is a great guy and all, but he’s really just expelling more hot air into Quarrycrest at this point.

Tressa studies the journal once more, sighing as she looks at her own words. Yeah, she has good reason to stay, to start finding her own treasure, and giving up isn’t in the cards. And she can’t complain too much, either! No merchant should be grumbling and pouting over wherever they set shop, or they wouldn’t be there in the first place!

She befriends some miners, glad to listen to their stories while looking over the rocks they’ve dug out from the walls. Her merchant’s instincts—which are never wrong—tell her they hold value, that there’s more to meet the eye, and she just has to get them! The advice they offer on dealing with the heat is more than welcome as well, and Tressa’s more than glad to thank them in turn.

Once she has a moment to sit, Tressa sets her bag on the ground with a heavy sigh. Honestly, she’s ready for a nap, or to let Alfyn press his hands chilled with ice magic to the back of her neck. However, he’s dragged Olberic to the tavern for a cold drink, and while Cyrus also has ice magic he’s, as one guessed it, off talking to that Odette lady he totally doesn’t have any interest in. 

She does feel a little bad for Ophilia, who’s off resting in the inn with a very concerned Primrose at her side. H’aanit’s enjoying the shade as well with Linde, and… well, she isn’t sure where Therion is. Knowing him, he’s off brooding somewhere. The less she thinks of that stupid Ali, the better.

With a hum, Tressa takes out a rag from one of the many pockets from her bag, taking it to one of the rocks. She continues to polish until something glints brilliantly in the sunlight, and Tressa nearly drops the now sparkling rock in pure, unabated joy. Of all the times for everyone to be away…! Who is she gonna brag to now, huh? She found a treasure—an honest to gods real, sparkling, shining treasure!    

Tressa holds it skywards, eyes bright and eager as she continues to feel excitement spark throughout her veins, smile vast as the ocean that surrounds Rippletide. 

“Wait until you hear about this, journal!” She exclaims this with pride, puffing out her chest. “It’ll be one of the best stories you’ve ever heard!”

Chapter Text

When Cyrus first met Odette, he was left in absolute awe. Never had he met another who matched him for turn of phrase with ease, and perhaps had managed to outdo him in wit. Naturally, his next course of action was to seek further discussion with her, to pick her mind on the first topic that came to him. All he knew of this woman is that she hailed from Noblecourt, and often preferred to study in solitude. 

However, it seemed Cyrus was an exception to this fact. He was often found in her office, a stack of tomes upon their desk to exchange, eager conversations to follow. The hours were late by the time he departed, and often there lay one thought in his mind as Cyrus returned to his quarters: When was the next time they were to meet?

Cyrus found himself reporting to her than others about his newest theories or thesis, and she always gave her full attention. Odette offered points he’s never considered, and by the time revisions had been made, he’s quick to call it his finest work.

“You always call it that when we’re finished brainstorming,” she’d remark with a laugh, “I thought you carried further confidence in your work, Cyrus.”

“Your insights are always so fascinating, Odette!” Would be his reply, clutching a book stuffed to the brim with additional notes to his chest. “I am simply honored to have an esteemed colleague such as yourself, given the sharp mind you possess.”

This earned him a smile. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, but you’re welcome to always offer your accolades.” 

It’d upset him some when she had left, but it wasn’t as if he could necessarily stop her. He couldn’t follow Odette either, however, and promised to teach happily in her stead.

(Though he missed her. Gods, had he missed her, and never understood the hollowness in his chest when he’d passed her empty office until their reunion.)

Ten years came to pass, and he had found herself at her side once more. It’d been like the pair never separated, eager to dive into their new research. Though Cyrus’ stay in Quarrycrest had been rather short, it’s not as if he was one to tarry for long. In a way, he was inexorably drawn to her. Perhaps Odette was his other half in all aspects—in academia, in research, and now in love. It’s something Cyrus finds himself reflecting often, no matter the years into their marriage. 

She’s a true vision of beauty curled into his arms, wearing nary but an old shirt of his and her smallclothes. Her hair was tangled by sleep, some of it strewn in front of her face. It was terribly difficult to not lose himself to admiration, and so his vision did not bother to focus on anything else. Not the sunlight peeking through their curtains, nor their beloved cat resting on the foot of the bed. Cyrus knew he was to receive some light teasing upon her waking, as the first sight Odette would see were his eyes highlighted with a special sort of veneration—set to be the finest highlight a husband could offer his dear wife, he often claimed.

Cyrus must have done something wonderful in a past life to exist in the same time that Odette did, accented with fortune, as she’s been his beloved wife for many a year. This was never the future he envisioned when they’d first met, but who is he to argue where such a natural bond had lead?

Carefully, his lips brushed against the top of her head, ever careful to not stir her from her rest. Cyrus breathed in her scent, faint of her favorite chamomile tea, and found himself drifting back into a peaceful one of his own.  

Chapter Text

Z’aanta couldn’t quite recall the last time he failed a hunt. That could be chalked up to old age, sure, but he likes to pretend it’s due to his reputation as a master hunter. He thought nothing odd of this request, other than the perplexing matter of how Redeye had come to be. Monsters of such nature did not appear from nowhere, and this one certainly was not of Orsterra.

He’d tracked it well, and upon realizing the danger it possessed, waved off the Knights Ardante with a scoff. There was hardly a need to have them deal with the beast alongside him—and had the worst come to pass, they wouldn’t become one with the earth at such a young age.

Damn it all, had that confidence come to bite him in the rear end. He’d promised H’aanit he would have returned by now with a new tale to entertain her with. It wasn’t like the girl to worry so, he knew, but the idea of breaking her heart hurt his own. What stung the most, however, was the fact he may never hold a chance to apologize in person. 

It was rather hasty, the letter he wrote, but it was a message she needed to see all the same. Rather fortunate it was a slow-acting stone, given he had the chance to fire it into a nearby tree. Hagen had fled some time ago, heading to S’waarki alone. He knew H’aanit would know why, and hopefully, she’d be able to complete this hunt in her stead.

Her level head would work better hunting a beast so dangerous. Z’aanta had always thought perhaps in his older age, he should be aware of his shortcomings. His body certainly wasn’t as flexible as it used to be, joints and muscles aching after several firings of his arrows. Of course, Z’aanta was quick to shrug off those concerns, saying he’d find an apothecary worth his leaves to aid some old bones. 

Well, perhaps had he done such matters instead of quaffing ale in every tavern he’d found, he would’ve escaped the beast’s foul stare. Z’aanta had barely glimpsed into Redeye’s gaze before his body stilled, nerves heavy as stone. The paralyzation was slow as it crept up his body. It ate at warm skin and blood, hungry in its claim. The forest’s winds carried its guttural howls as it prowled deeper within the woods, and all Z’aanta could do was hope nothing befell Hagen on his trail home.

“Pray forgiveth your foolish master, H’aanit.” The stone crept up his torso. “Mayhap I shoulde haven listened to thou’s lectures.”

Chapter Text

Father was dead. 

No matter how many times Lianna wished this to be a cruel nightmare, it seemed the gods were not to be kind to her today. She’d yelled and sobbed and tried to push past the clerics, to hold onto his hand one last time, but she was ushered away.

A young girl shouldn’t have to see something so foul, they’d said. She had no need to see how his skin was whiter than snow, pulled thin and gaunt over his bones. From the mere glimpse Lianna caught, perhaps their words held merit, and yet, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to care. They denied her the final chance to say goodbye, and it twisted and turned the agony in her heart.

The clouds outside, low and grey, carried a darker pallor than her father’s skin.

She sat in the front row of the church’s pews, hands folded, gaze heavy with fog. The world beneath her shifted in and out of focus, its edges blurred. Prayer attempted to leave her lips, words hanging heavy in the shaky puffs of breath managed. Lianna tried to call for Aelfric, for Ophilia, for someone to stop her heart from contorting in pain. The blue flame before her offered no comforts, its warmth replaced with bitter chill. It terrified her, it hurt, it was worse than any nightmare she’d ever have.

Perhaps she was living her own, this couldn’t be real, she’d wake up and have breakfast with Ophilia and Father, she’d performing the Kindling and none of this would happen and they’d be safe and happy and alive— 

“I’m terribly sorry to hear about the Archbishop.” A gentle voice cut through the panic gripping her mind. “I had heard he was your father.”

Lianna didn’t move.

“For all the kindness the gods are said to give, they can be equally cruel in their designs.” The pew creaked slightly under the person’s weight as they sat at her side. “They took him from you far too soon.”

The voice seemed familiar. She craned her neck to the right, catching light brown hair in her gaze. A blue coat with white fur trim. The merchant from the Lionel Consortium, she believed. The one who lingered around the church. 

“It truly is a shame to experience loss at such a young age.” The man continued, a hand pressed over his heart. “And no matter the prayers one offers, they always fall upon deaf ears. Is that not what happened to you?”

“I…” Her eyes flickered to the flame, and then back to him. “Father…”

“And your poor sister has left you as well, I have heard. Is she not the one performing the Kindling in your stead?” He asked this so casually. Too casually, perhaps. “You could not even mourn together.”

“Phili… She… I-I know that once she returns with the lanthorn, we…” She blinked back tears that threatened her eyes. “We can pray to the Sacred Flame. It… It will guide us.”

He shook his head. “Beautiful as those words may be, you know they shall weigh hollow in your chest. I know you will not have satisfaction with mere prayer, Lianna. What you truly desire to see your dear father once more. ...And that is something I can grant you.”

She stilled. Lianna turned her gaze to the man once more, and was met with calm eyes and a smile. For the promise he offered, for words that did not seem hollow, a part of her mind begged her not to listen.

But she was so lonely. Lianna did not notice the flame flicker and wane before her.

“...How?” She managed to ask, eyes wide. “H-How can I see my father again?”

“It’s rather simple.” The man held out his hand. “You can help me save him.”

Chapter Text

“She’s so beautiful, Therion.” Cordelia gives another sniffle, beaming at the baby girl in her arms. “And she is ours. ”

He nods in reply, throat thick with tears of his own as he stares at them both in admiration. Elena, they’ve named her, looks beyond content in her mother’s hold. She’s swaddled securely in the small blanket Alfyn’s wrapped her in—after all, there’s no one Therion would have trusted more than the Greengrass family to help deliver their daughter. He’s sure that if Alfyn and Zeph had stayed in the room, they’d be crying just as much. Given the circumstances, it’s hard to blame them. Therion did name them as Elena’s godfathers, after all.

“Would you like to hold her?” Cordelia leans against his shoulder, gaze turned upwards. “I’m sure she’d love to meet her father, dear.”

“I—” He nods, shifting closer to her on the bed. “Yeah.”

If you asked Therion where his life would be ten years ago, he wouldn’t have been able to provide an answer. He would’ve shrugged, if anything, expecting to be still wandering (or alive) if he was lucky. He didn’t think he’d come back to Bolderfall years after returning the Dragonstones, nor expected for him and Cordelia to fall in love. He didn’t expect to take her as his wife, nor did he think he’d want to be a father. 

She made him feel like the impossible was possible, that she could give him more than trust and safety. Each yes he said felt right; it stirred his heart with joy in the most magnificent of ways. Even if Cordelia was the only person who would ever call him Lord Ravus, he couldn’t be any happier to hold the title. Now that they were parents, Therion couldn’t dare to imagine a different life for himself. How could he, when this is easily the happiest he's ever been?

“She’s… so small.” Therion stares down at Elena, careful as he takes her into his arms. 

Cordelia gives a mixture of a laugh and a sob, freely wiping at her eyes. “She’s a baby, Therion.”

“I know—I know that.” Elena stirs, and on instinct, Therion holds her closer. “I just… I can’t believe she’s ours, Cordelia.”  

“Little Elena Ravus…” Cordelia’s finger reaches out to brush against her cheek. “Our Ellie… I love her so dearly; I knew from the moment we would have her that I would hold nothing but unconditional love for our child.”

Therion doesn’t know how to be a father, but he holds confidence it’s something he can learn. There’s nothing more he wants for Elena to know her parents love her, and she’ll never worry about having a roof over her head. She’ll grow up safe and happy, endlessly spoiled by her parents (as well as a group of doting aunts and uncles, as well as one Grandpapa Heathcote). Cordelia will sing her endless lullabies, and maybe he’ll entertain the idea of offering a few of his own.

Carefully, Therion lifts Elena as he presses his lips to her forehead, and then Cordelia’s to follow. “Welcome to the world, Ellie.” His expression melts into a warm, gentle smile. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

Chapter Text

H’aanit believes she is not getting Linde to come inside anytime soon. It’s hard to blame the snow leopard, given she’s in her natural environment. Stillsnow has been nothing but a wonder for her, far more preferable than the searing heat of the Sunlands. Cliftland’s arid air did her no favors either, as she spent most of her time in the inns, or resting in the shade. Given how the Woodlands have never reached such temperatures, H’aanit never blamed her companion.

She watches Linde roll about in the snow with alacrity, paws swiping towards the few snowflakes that fall from the sky. It’s a relief to see her in higher spirits, given how they’ve spent a fair bit of this journey worried for Z’aanta’s safety. It’s rare to have a moment to rest, given how it seems H’aanit and her companions always seem busy with the task at hand. Everyone needs a chance to rest, and she’d be remiss not to include a certain someone who’s acting like a cub as she flits around in the snow.

“Thou hast not acted as a childe in some time, Linde.” H’aanit’s half tempted to join her, admittedly. “I did not thinke thou missed snow this much.”

Tressa looks as if she’s a second away from leaping into the snowbank next to her. “Can you blame her, H’aanit? The snow is soooo pretty! We definitely don’t get anything like this in the Coastlands.”

She gives a soft laugh. “I am not giving blame. It be amusing to see her acten in such a manner, is all.”

“I think it’s darling to see Linde so happy,” Primrose comments, slightly curled up to Ophilia, “the poor dear looked so miserable when we were in Wellspring.”

It hardly helps that they were there for both Therion and Olberic, and that the former tarried just a touch longer before managing to bid farewell to Erhardt. No one’s given a comment on it, but H’aanit’s fairly certain everyone immediately picked up on every unsaid feeling between the two men. 

“I’ve missed the snow as well. It never fails to remain beautiful as ever.” Ophilia stretches out a gloved hand, a soft smile on her face as a snowflake dances onto it. “And now it’s more special that I get to spend it with such wonderful people.”

Both H’aanit and Primrose return the gentle expression; neither of the three women notice that Tressa’s bound towards the snow with a crafty grin on her face. It’s hardly a second later until a snowball comes sailing towards H’aanit’s face. Ophilia and Primrose attempt to stifle their laughter, although it’s hardly successful.

“Linde did it!” Tressa immediately hides her snow-covered hands behind her back. 

Linde’s reply is to offer her trademark “rawr”, alongside a tilt of her head as she blinks at Tressa. Clearly, this accusation cannot stand, and H’aanit has to defend her dear companion’s honor.

“Thou hast chosen quite the opponent, Tressa.” H’aanit brushes the snow off her face, going to stand with a playful smile of her own. “I hope thou knoweth I holden back nothing.”

Chapter Text

Cordelia hardly gets a wink of sleep the night before Noa’s letters arrive. Excitement stirs in her veins, eager eyes peering out the window to see if the sun’s cracked the horizon just yet. It’s irresponsible to shirk a good night’s rest in this way, but oh bother, how can she tell herself to rest? Those words of Noa are her only glance to what the world is like outside of these red bluffs she’s been surrounded by her entire life. She would love nothing more than to go to the Coastlands herself, but they just can’t afford to leave the Dragonstones unattended, and gods forbid Heathcote lets her travel on her own.

(Minus the instances she’s snuck out on occasion. Cordelia believes she’s allowed herself a rebellious streak.)

She huffs, elbows stationed on the windowsill as she waits, peering out into the same cliffs she sees every day. Despite being half awake, Cordelia’s made it to the drawing room, a cup of half-drank tea at her side. She’s certain Heathcote will click his tongue at her later with a lecture about how a young lady such as herself needs sleep. Even if he’s correct, she’ll heed his words at another time. Noa’s letters are a window to a world she has yet to experience, and who is to blame her for wishing to hear from her best friend?

When she spots the mail carrier heading towards the manor gate, she practically bolts towards the door, heart beating with excitement. Cordelia’s mind fills with thoughts of what tales she’ll read of today, how those words will put her on Grandport’s shores, warm sand and cool water beneath her feet. She can only hope to visit again one day; maybe when things are a little less hectic. 

Cordelia doesn’t pay mind to how she appears a little less than refined as she hurries to the gate. While she’s changed out of her nightwear, her hair’s more than windswept from how fast she ran. 

“Good morning, Lady Ravus.” The mail carrier gives a good-natured laugh as he opens the satchel, digging into it until he pulls out a small stack of letters. “Lady Wyndham’s words are eager as ever to reach you.”

“How wonderful! Thank you so much.” As Cordelia takes the letters, she swears she can smell a faint seabreeze. “I’ll be certain to call on you when I’ve written my response later this week.”

They engage in a bit of smalltalk, and Cordelia’s quick as ever to run back into the manor for a day of reading.

While Noa’s never visited the Cliftlands, she’d like to imagine they hold a special sort of wonder only Cordelia’s words have been able to capture. Traveling to Bolderfall may not be possible just yet, but Noa knows she’ll see it with her own eyes one day. She dreams of the idea of her and Cordelia making their own journey across Orsterra, eager to chronicle the sights they behold.

Not only that, she finds herself rather eager to read the next short story Cordelia has yet to offer. The realm’s finest authors hardly compare to her, even if her dear friend remains modest as ever when receiving such praises. If she ever wishes to pursue being a novelist as a career, Noa holds confidence she’d become a famous author in no time at all.

Whenever she reads Cordelia’s descriptions of Bolderfall, it’s with ease she can imagine the warm sun on her face. She can imagine how the light scatters across the brick red bluffs. She can imagine the tiny garden Cordelia’s managed, the burst of color it adds. Noa can easily smell each flower, from the gentle waft of lavender to the fragrant cosmos and petunias that surround Ravus Manor. 

Though neither of them have ever been, the words Cordelia writes of the Flatlands are just as vivid. She can imagine the sprawling stone buildings and lush greenery, the fancy walks of life, the scholars… Although Cordelia said she’s only heard them from her dear childhood friend Kit, it’s easy to believe she’s walked those streets herself. 

Noa hums softly as she taps her fingers on her desk in anticipation, knowing the mail carrier should be here today. The day before, she and her father went to the market in search of some small gifts to her, just to give Cordelia a reminder of Grandport’s finest wears. Given how her mind works, perhaps she’ll be able to craft a lovely short story based on them.

Before she becomes too lost in her thoughts, there’s a knock at her bedroom door. With a smile, her father steps in, a small stack of letters in his hands. “It appears that Cordelia’s given you plenty to read about yet again.”

She gasps in delight, nearly stumbling over her legs as she bounds towards her father, excitement sparking in her veins. “Oh, thank you so much, father!” She takes them, smile wide as ever. “I can’t wait to get started.”

Chapter Text

Gods, how many years has it been since she’s seen this blasted town? The second her feet hit Noblecourt’s pavement, Odette has half a mind to turn around and return to Quarrycrest. She realizes it’d be ridiculous, given how she’s made the effort to travel this far. It’s difficult to swallow the lump of emotions in her throat, and cope with the fact that they’re present in the first place. No, she isn’t ashamed to miss Geoffrey like this, but she promised to at least attempt to control herself.

She’s told herself her work’s not done, there’s still plenty of research to do, and it’s why she’s refused to even entertain the notion of visiting his grave. However, there’s only so far an excuse can carry someone. It’s not as if Cyrus helped any with his gentle words and eyes, saying even the greatest of researchers could afford to make time for matters of the heart. He even made sure to escort her personally, just in case he was needed. Odette can’t quite afford to go down that path, and so, she doesn’t. Not today, at least.

With a heavy sigh, she finds herself near the graveyard. All she has to do is take another step forward, place down the flowers, say a few words and retreat to the inn. Perhaps Cyrus will treat her to dinner afterward, she’ll derive some entertainment from his words, and they’ll return to Quarrycrest with some sense of closure. 

Wordlessly, Cyrus offers her hand a gentle squeeze. If he of all men has nothing to say, then there’s hardly any point in tarrying. They exchange one last glance, and reluctantly, Odette pulls her hand away from Cyrus’ own. She brings the bouquet close to her chest, and slowly makes her way down the steps.

While it doesn’t come as a surprise to see another presence there, Odette nearly stops in her tracks, not wishing to intrude. It’s hardly her place to join them, really. Despite this, she receives a welcoming smile from the other. Like hers, it’s small and tired.

Primrose doesn’t speak either as Odette leans down to place the flowers on the grave. She reaches out to place a hand on Odette’s shoulder, nodding in affirmation. It’s a relief to see the girl far better than before, how far she’s come. She’s no longer in dancer’s garb, donning a long, pink gown with short, ruffled sleeves. In the distance, Odette notices Ophilia waiting at the opposite end of the graveyard, hands folded in front of her.

They’re both fortunate enough to have someone else carry their burdens, aren’t they? It’s not strength they lack by any means, but it never hurts to have support whenever it’s needed. 

Geoffrey must be more than happy to see them like this, settled in their lives. She has Cyrus, Primrose has Ophilia. They’ve been able to move forward and heal, which is probably something Lord Azelhart’s wanted more than anything. It’s easy to imagine the teasing Odette would endure, and how she’d quickly try to pass it onto Primrose were they in the same room. He’d treat them like sisters, and the idea stirs warmth in Odette’s heart. 

Though she can’t speak for the other woman, Primrose looks just as pleased with the idea. She’s taken Odette’s hand in her own now as they continue to stand before his grave, head bowed in prayer.

Maybe tomorrow, when it all feels a little easier, she and Primrose will enjoy a chat over tea. For now, the silence will do.

Chapter Text

Among the mighty men who have fallen, Werner feels a mixture of humiliation and anger that he is to be one of them. Riverford has been in the palm of his hand for years; losing it to one wayward knight and his companions— pah, what a bitter word on his tongue—causes the blood in his veins to boil.

It’s easy for one to think of their shortcomings in the face of death. Werner’s come in the form of regret. Regret he did not kill that waste of a soldier, that he did not rip out Erhardt’s bleeding heart as it still beat. Regret he did not send out scouts to see if the Unbending Blade still breathed, and what sorts of poison could rust him. Regret the Blazing Blade still burned with resolve, resolve for that damned Hornburgian knight, how their so-called friendship was enough to topple Werner off his rightful throne. 

He finds insult in how the knight’s blade remains sheathed. Olberic still seems to believe his sense of honor is above all. 

“I am offering you a chance to speak,” he says, “as I wish to hear why you would seek the downfall of an entire kingdom.”

The Gate. The Gate of Finis, and all it promises to bring them. The end. The beginning. Power beyond what a mere human can achieve. Hornburg was to be a demonstration of his capabilities. Of what would come next.

“You think yourself worthy of an answer, lost knight,” Werner snarls out in response.

“I believe I have earned such matters.” Olberic rests his hand on the pommel of his sword. “As has Erhardt.”

Werner scoffs. “Why waste your time with words when you shall not live to see their true meaning?”

“Then I suppose you shall have to taste my blade once more.” The sharp sound of withdrawn steel echoes between them. “And with it, I shall find the honor that you stole from Erhardt and myself.”

Werner finds he is quite tired of that word. It comes off as nothing more than senseless prattle, of a broken knight attempting to stitch himself together once more. It’s empty. It’s a concept he should have ever prevented others from believing in. 

Ah, damn it all. If he’s to die, Werner prefers it be on his own terms. “I should have doused the Blazing Blade’s fire the moment he failed to kill you.”

A hint of a scowl paints Olberic’s features.

“Isn’t it such a pity?” Slowly, Werner stands, supporting himself against his sword. “You two will never find the answers you seek.” And before the knight can react, Werner’s hands curl around the blade’s hilt before it’s thrust into his stomach. 

He coughs out a wet laugh, vision already waning as he drinks in the expression of horror on Olberic’s face. “The… Gate of Finis… you shall never understand…”

Darkness comes, and it has never been sweeter.

Chapter Text

It’s rare Simeon paints himself as a wanting man, but his dear savior adores to make him think otherwise, tugging on every string of desire within his body. He watches Mattias with hunger, painting a picture of how soft his skin must be, how it begs and pleads for slender fingers and hungry lips and teeth to bruise it. Familiar with it as he may be, it’s been far too long since he’s indulged in prayer.

Simeon taps his fingers against his lips, barely concealing the smirk underneath. His gaze drips with desire as he loses himself to imagination. He’s shed that coat of his to the floor, vest and shirt hastily thrown off as well. Simeon’s hands follow, touches featherlight and teasing as they leave goosebumps on his arms and stomach. His mouth is next, tasting Mattias’ skin as his tongue draws up his chest. Nails rake down the mark of the crow on his shoulder, a sight for the puppet master and no other.

And then, face running with flush, Mattias will ask for more as eager hands begin to strip off Simeon’s clothes.

Of course, any good show requires a proper build up. There’s no rush to begin the second act.

Mewls of want would leave the savior’s lips next as Simeon’s hands ghost down his thighs. There’s skin to touch and tease under what clothing remains, to dot with marks that will decorate them with stars in the night sky. He’s to be slow in unworking the laces of his breeches, breathing sermons against the bare skin, eliciting the most divine moans he’s ever heard. There’s quite a few choices next—those thighs around his waist, his shoulders, chasing whichever avenue of pleasure is deemed worthy of men such as them.

Needless to say, the pair would not leave their bed until very late the next morning.  

Simeon exhales a soft shudder, eyes boring into Mattias’ back. How terrible of him to lose a fraction of his composure in public, but it’s rather unfair if he cannot get what he deserves. How shall they carry out their duties, encumbered by want, distracted by desire? He’s certain they’ve delegated their orders for the day, and that the next course of action is to occupy their bedchambers within Everhold.

He’s quick to rise, brushing his fingers against Mattias’ shoulders. Their eyes lock, Simeon’s lust reflected in his. 

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he whispers, “do not keep me alone for long, my savior.”

Chapter Text

It’s rare Bale finds himself regretting his actions, and while that necessarily may not be the case here, he feels something at witnessing the sight unfolding before him.

He’s invited the Twin Blades of Hornburg (who are married now, to his lack of surprise) to speak with Wellspring’s newest recruits. Under the impression no one could inspire them better than the legendary knights themselves, he was quick to send correspondence to Cobbleston. Not only could they speak to the fledglings, they could all raise a tankard of ale in their honor.

That tankard grew to one—then to two, three, four, five. Bale does recall Erhardt’s rather… generous tolerance for alcohol, and his husband’s quite the fearsome match. If the tavern’s supply of ale disappears overnight, he’ll know who to blame. 

Now, he’s not a man to judge if another enjoys a good drink. It’d be rather hypocritical of him, as he’d end strenuous days of fighting with one of his own. Why he’s focusing on this tonight is due to the rather… interesting, he’ll say, speeches that come from the back of the tavern.

For starters, barely any of them speak of proper knighthood. Olberic is mid-speech of how he and Erhardt would spar as young boys, how oft he was distracted by his golden locks. Erhardt was strong as he was beautiful, blade sharp as his wit. (Bale never thought Olberic was of poetic nature. He wished to keep it that way.) His arm is slung around Erhardt’s waist, holding onto the man as if a stiff breeze would carry him away. Erhardt’s head is nestled into his shoulder, adding comments how being in love with one’s rival added a special flair to their matches.

It seems he’ll have to tease them for being a bunch of sentimental sops when they’re nursing a hangover tomorrow morning. He shakes his head, resting his elbows on the table as he watches the pair continue to give quite the unforgettable speech.

“I’m quite sure this wasn’t the outcome you expected, captain.” One of his soldiers sits at his side with a snort. “The Twin Blades being a pair of bleeding hearts.”

“I’ve met many surprises in my time, but this one is certainly an unexpected one.” Bale surveys the crowd of confused, yet rather humored knights. “I can’t say I’m to blame them for their happiness, however. It’s well deserved.”

She laughs. “And they’re not to be embarrassed by their behavior in the morning? It’s not everyday one gets to see the Unbending Blade lapse into a fit of giggles as he sings his husband’s praises.”

“Then it will teach the knights to mind their mead,” Bale responds, “and know the scope of their limits. I’m certain that is the lesson they’re aiming to teach.”

This time, she snorts with loud laughter, not bothering to hide it behind her hand. “And I’m certain you’re to embarrass them tomorrow, just because you can.”

Chapter Text

“Now girls, your papa and I have a very important mission for you.” Alfyn kneels before their daughters, looking serious as ever. “Think you got what it takes?”

Juliana and Melanie nod eagerly in response, wide green eyes looking up at him, brimming with determination.

“Your Uncle Ogen doesn’t like the cold at all. Matter of fact, he finds it pretty scary.” Ogen’s body, while recovered well from his illness, is susceptible as ever when winter comes. Alfyn’s invited him to Clearbrook for the season, figuring it may be kinder to him than Northreach. “You two gotta keep him nice and warm tonight.”

“It would mean a lot to your papa,” Zeph adds, reaching out to ruffle Juliana’s hair, “Uncle Ogen’s a very good friend of his. They’ve known each other for a long time.”

“Really?” Juliana looks impressed. “I thought you two knew each other the longest!”

Alfyn laughs. “Other than him, Jules. He’s an old friend of mine, just like your other aunts and uncles.”

“We can do it!” Melanie’s tiny hands ball together in determination. “We’ll protect him!”

“Good girls. I knew we could count on ya.” Alfyn kisses the top of their heads. “You and Jules are the strongest ones in Clearbrook, after all.”

Both of them gasp, clearly honored by such a title. Alfyn swears his heart might burst at how cute his and Zeph’s twin girls are. Five years have gone by since they’ve taken them home, and every day Alfyn finds a way to love them a little more.

“The strongest.” Zeph gives a nod. “Maybe in all of the Riverlands, too.”

“Wow…” Juliana’s eyes sparkle as she looks at her sister. “We gotta go help him, Mels! We gotta be the best!” She takes Melanie’s hand, ready to sprint off.

“I guess we ain’t gettin’ our good night kisses, Zeph.” Alfyn shakes his head. “Ain’t that such a shame?”

“I suppose we’ve lost to Ogen tonight.” Zeph stands up straight, taking Alfyn’s hand in his own. “It can’t be helped.”

Before Alfyn and Zeph have a chance to head off towards their bedroom, the girls nearly tackle them over in a hug. The men laugh warmly in turn, happy to return the affection. Not a day goes by in the Greengrass household without smiles and love, after all. 

Once Juliana and Melanie head off towards the guest room, Zeph gives a content sigh and nestles into the crook of Alfyn’s neck. “We raised some wonderful girls, didn’t we?” His arms slide around his waist. 

Alfyn wraps his arms around Zeph’s, kissing the side of his head. “We did. I couldn’t ask for anyone better to raise ‘em with.”

Ogen doesn’t expect to hear a knock at his door, even with all of Alfyn’s reminders that he’s here if he needs anything. As much as he appreciates the kindness, he’d told him and Zeph to focus on taking care of those sweet daughters of theirs. He knows it wouldn’t be Alfyn without that big heart of his, but the boy’s got to rest at some point. That’s what Zeph’s there for, Ogen’s told him. The kid was lucky enough to marry his best friend, and one who will keep his head on straight.

...What a grand life that must be. Ogen glances out the window with a sigh, glad to see something else other than heavy snow blanket the world before him. Clearbrook’s cold, yes, but it doesn’t hurt as much as home.

The room’s chill is hardly bad as before, the hearth crackling with life, a thick blanket draped over his shoulder. His joints still ache, but Ogen figures there’s hardly much he can do about it. One’s body needs time to recover after carrying so many illnesses for years on end. Maybe in the morning, they’ll brainstorm some new tonics that’ll help mollify his symptoms. For all he knows, Alfyn might be coming to offer him something.

He goes to answer the door, and is surprised to see the world’s most excitable pair of twins before him.

“Papa said we needed to scare the cold away!” Juliana immediately raises her arms towards him. “So we’re here to keep you warm!”

“Yeah!” Melanie clings to one of his legs. “We’re really strong!”

...Gods. He can imagine the dopey, well-meaning grin on Alfyn’s face in the morning.

“I guess I can’t convince you two to sleep in your bedroom tonight, huh?” Ogen gives a soft smile. He goes to pick up Juliana, who gladly nuzzles into the crook of his neck. 

“Nope!” Melanie giggles. “We’re gonna stay here forever!”

“Forever, huh?” He carefully shifts Juliana into one arm, extending his other hand to Melanie. “And your fathers don’t mind?”

“We gotta fight the cold first.” Melanie gives a matter-of-fact nod as she takes his hand. “It’s our job!”

“I’m sure you two will keep me safe.” Maybe tonight won’t be so bad. “I’ll be sure to tell your fathers what a good job you did.”

Chapter Text

They're home. They're sobbing and wailing into Cordelia’s shoulder, shaking in her hold as Bolderfall’s sun beats down on their back, but Kit Crossford’s journey has finally come to an end. They've been freed from the Dark God. The Gate of Finis is closed. Though it hurts, they know what became of their father. Kit is no longer alone, and that is what they must focus on.

“I’m right here, Kit.” Cordelia works her fingers through their hair, voice gentle. “You’re safe.”

“I—” A whimper leaves their throat. “Lia… my father, he—”

Kit was barely conscious when they fell out of Galdera, but there was no mistaking the apparitions of their parents wasn’t a hallucination. The travelers that saved their life were kind in telling him the truth of what befell Graham, how he became the baleful Redeye, and how he was put to rest. While Kit can say the closure will help them heal in the future, for now, it’s best to let the hurt pass.

“You can tell me what happened to Uncle Graham later,” she soothes. There’s tears in her voice as well. “For now, I wish to focus on making sure you’re alright.”

They bury themselves further the crook of Cordelia’s neck, fingers gripping into the back of her dress. Kit is rather aware they’re at the gates of Ravus Manor, and should move inside, but their body’s beyond exhausted. The guards and Heathcote would never judge, and if anything, they’re happy to see them well.

“I’m sure your journey wasn’t full of heartache.” Ever optimistic Cordelia, Kit remembers. She’s taken the faith and trust Heathcote’s given her, and it’s done nothing but make her stronger. “I want to hear about those wonderful people who saved you. We can tell each other stories, just like we used to when we were children. If you feel up to such things, perhaps you could even draw for me as well.”

“I’d… I’d like that.” They take in a breath—deep, grounding. The sunbaked cliffs remind them of the home they've had for many a year. “They were such wonderful people. One of them told me he knew you—had helped you retrieve the Dragonstones. ...He told me to say hello.”

A bright laugh leaves Cordelia. “Is that so? Well, I’ll have to return his greeting one day. I’m certain he’d be glad to see you well.”

The fact that he may return in the future does stir something of warmth in Kit’s heart. Will they see the others as well over time? Will they return to Bolderfall, reminders that they have people in Orsterra? That they no longer shall feel alone?

“I missed you so much, Cordelia.” Kit pulls back to wipe at their eyes, managing a smile. “I can’t thank you and Heathcote enough for providing me a home.” 

“I promised we would always be here for you, Kit.” She takes their hands in her own, holding tight. “I can’t quite imagine what you’ve endured, but… we can get through it together.”

“We can.” Kit takes a deep breath. Hot air fills their lungs. They hear some birds fly overhead. Cordelia’s touch is gentle against their own. The sun continues to beat down on their skin, on travel-worn clothes. Their hair brushes against them when a gentle breeze blows. The world is warm and bright, and no longer are they surrounded by darkness. 

They're alive.

Chapter Text

Olberic leaves Cobbleston to seek out answers to an eight year old question. Along the way, he finds companions he can put something akin to faith in. They listen to his stories, offer advice and their sympathies where they may. They ask of happier times in Hornburg, of its history, and of the man he’s seeking. Upon his arrival in Victor’s Hollow, they cheer him on in the stands (some with exuberance—Tressa was the loudest of them all) for him to claim the coveted title of champion. 

He smiles, quite more than he’s ever had in some time. He enjoys a good mug of ale with Alfyn when time allows it. He speaks of battle with Cyrus, Therion, and H’aanit. Ophilia offers him guidance, and he is able to learn from Primrose’s strength. By journey’s end, Olberic is proud to call them his friends, unexpected as their meetings may have been. 

A part of him does hold surprise at how Erhardt is now his love. He did not think himself fortunate enough, and yet the man lies in his arms at day’s end, golden hair brighter than it was before.

Olberic had sought redemption, and found happiness alongside it.  

Cyrus leaves Atlasdam in pursuit of an age-old tome, its pages riddled with intrigue. Not only does he meet the most fascinating of companions along the way, he is able to learn so much from them. He learns the ins and outs of being a top merchant, the finer details of being a hunter. Though Therion barely speaks a word to him that isn’t riddled in sarcasm, he can observe how a thief works his trade. Not that he’ll ever use those skills himself, but knowledge is still knowledge! 

He enjoys his discussions of history with Olberic on Hornburg, Ophilia on the history of the Kindling, eager to hear personal accounts. After all, those lend themselves to being far more valuable than words on a page. Primrose teaches him how to notice a teasing remark or two, which ends up being far more useful than he imagined. When his journey comes to an end, Cyrus feels as though he has gained more than all his years at the academy combined—sans for one occurrence, of course. 

Cyrus had sought truth, which leads him to discover he is far happier away from Atlasdam, and that feeling is what behooves him to head towards Quarrycrest once more with the intention to stay.

Therion leaves Bolderfall with a fool’s bangle on his wrist, weighing him down with a task he never asked for. At first, he shields his gaze from the concerned glances Cordelia Ravus offers, or the questions these so-called companions ask of him. As time marches on, they slip through the cracks in his defenses. Alfyn and Ophilia’s care is genuine and warm. He appreciates how Olberic and H’aanit seem to understand his thoughts at a single glance, asking no more than necessary. Primrose is cut from a similar cloth, and in a way, he finds comfort in confiding within her. Tressa is… Tressa, but she’s fun to mess with. 

Cyrus… Well, if anything, Therion rather enjoys getting under his skin. 

He surprises himself with how close he feels to Cordelia and Heathcote one the Dragonstones are returned. He’s more surprised when he no longer feels Darius’ shadow lingering over him, and how light it makes his heart feel. Therion says he has roads to travel, but maybe he’ll be back one day, and maybe he’ll have a home. This sentiment rings true in three years' time, and Therion finds a home and safety within Ravus Manor. Though it terrifies him at first, he places his heart in Cordelia’s hands, and she never dares to let go.

Therion had sought freedom, and once his past had let him go, had found friends worthy of his trust, and someone to love.

Ophilia leaves Flamesgrace in her sister’s stead, lanthorn burning with resolve and love. Though she meets kind and wonderful strangers on her journey, the dear companions at her side seem a blessing from Aelfric himself. She appreciates the wisdom Olberic and Cyrus offer, and the eagerness the latter offers at seeing the Kindling performed with his own eyes. She and Alfyn teach other tricks of their own trade when it comes to healing others. Therion is offered the care he deserves, and he grants her the very same. Tressa’s boundless energy reminds her of Lianna at times, and is glad to find a sister within her. H’aanit and Primrose mean more to her than words can say.

Love is a wonderful experience, more so when it’s found after hardship. Wispermill’s events dare to damage her heart, but Primrose is there to offer it a healing of her own. For one who believed she had no family left in this world at such a young age, Ophilia was given the finest one she could ask for. This offers happiness to Lianna as well, who no longer has to fear being alone in the world.

She wakes up with Primrose nestled into her side, offering the finest warmth Ophilia has felt in years.

Ophilia had sought light, and was graced with one that was dazzling and blinding in its radiance for all to share.

Primrose leaves the scorching sands of Sunshade with a blood stained dagger, revenge on its blade. It is a journey she intends to take alone, unsure of what shall come after. She does not expect others to give their aid, but those she meets follow her out of the Sunlands. Alfyn tends to every ache and pain, her heart warmed by his compassion. Therion sees the world as she does, and somehow, there’s comfort in such matters. She finds joy in lightly teasing Cyrus and Olberic, but grows to see them as true friends as her journey marches on. She comes to see Tressa as a sister, as well as someone she holds a desire to protect. H’aanit’s presence offers her safety, company she enjoys, a feeling she’s desperately needed.

And then there is Ophilia. Beautiful and kind Ophilia, gentle in her words, a bright light in the darkness she’s known for so long. She never wavers in offering it to others; it makes her stronger, and Primrose is drawn to her brilliance. It leads her towards Flamesgrace, which presents itself as her home. This isn’t to say she will abandon Noblecourt completely, however. She’ll visit again, this time with Ophilia’s hand in hers. 

Primrose had sought revenge, and found healing and faith, finally able to move forward.

Alfyn leaves Clearbrook with a trusted satchel and the warm words of his best friend. The warmth of Zeph’s hands remains on his own as he travels to little villages and sprawling towns, and he’s more than glad to brag about him to the companions he meets. He teaches Ophilia and Primrose little tricks and tips, eager to have two budding apothecaries traveling at his side. Gods be damned, Alfyn is determined to earn Therion’s friendship; he knows there’s a good man behind those walls. Tressa is the world’s spunkiest little sister he could ask for, and H’aanit teaches him about herbs and plants he’s never heard of. Cyrus’ lectures on the history of his trade are riveting to listen to. Olberic is a wonderful man to share a tankard of ale with, easy to spend the night chattin’ away like it’s the easiest thing to do.

It’s rare Alfyn lets his heart weigh heavy in his chest, but his friends never let it last for long. They ensure it’s ready to go by day’s end with a smile on his face to match. He’s a lucky man already, knowing he’s to come home to Zeph. There’s stories to share, love to have, and confidence in himself Alfyn never quite knew he had. It does help some he’s able to kiss Zeph silly whenever he wants as well, he believes.

Alfyn had sought succor, and the gesture was returned to him one thousandfold. 

Tressa leaves Rippletide ready to see the world and all its treasures. She clutches a journal close to her chest, its author unknown, seeking to finish what he’s started. Her friends eagerly fill out several pages, having a plethora of stories to give. Cyrus tells her about how he became the youngest professor in Atlasdam, the same light in his eyes he held as a young boy. Olberic shares amusing anecdotes from his time as a young knight as he polishes his sword, and he even lets Tressa admire it up close, asking her of its value in a very non-serious manner. A dopey smile crosses Alfyn’s face as he talks about Zeph more than their apothecary business, but Tressa lets it slide. She’s gonna tease him later for it anyway. Grumble and puff her cheeks out about Therion as she may, Tressa can’t deny the bond they’ve forged along the way.

Primrose happens to be the coolest big sister anyone could ever ask for. They dance around the campfire at night, twirls of dresses and skirts illuminated by the fire. Ophilia tells her all about the adventures she and Lianna have had in the snow, and how beautiful the sky is with ribbons of light weaved throughout its stars. H’aanit’s stories of her hunts get better with each one she tells, and Tressa enjoys giving Linde all the ear scratches she needs. 

She’s fortunate enough to meet wonderful people, to see the Merchant’s Fair with her own eyes and walk its streets. Tressa writes this and more in her journal, which eventually finds its way to the hands of one Noa Wyndham, whose eyes sparkle brighter than the sea. Her gut says she’ll be returning to Grandport far, far sooner than later.

Tressa had sought treasure, and what she found was far more valuable and brighter than all the leaves in Orsterra.

H’aanit leaves S’waarki in search of her master in wonder of the beast that managed to stop him in his tracks. She is surprised, to say the least, that there are seven other people willing to assist her in finding a man they have never met. Olberic understands the need to search for another, offering his wisdom and advice along the way. Cyrus asks her about every question possible about hunting, what materials are best to construct a bow, and H’aanit answers each one with a smile. It’s rare one gets to claim they teach a scholar of his repute, he says, and another inquiry usually follows. Though she and Therion exchange few words at first, they come to respect each other on the nights they keep watch. For all the times she’s caught Therion curled up to Linde come morning, H’aanit never says a word. 

There lies a kinship with Primrose she can’t quite define, but H’aanit finds herself eager to seek friendship. She and Ophilia enjoy watching her dance, and often the trio discuss everything and anything when getting a moment to themselves. Tressa asks all about her “coolest hunting exploits”, and how is H’aanit to refuse such earnesty? Without a doubt, she’s one of the sweetest souls H’aanit’s come to meet. She watches with interest as Alfyn turns a few simple herbs into tonics and salves that fix just about any malady he finds, and admires the altruism that courses through his veins.

They offer her unwavering support when it comes to felling Redeye. While her confidence never falters, H’annit cannot deny the warmth that settles into her chest as they head into the Grimsand Ruins. As the beast crumbles into dust, they mourn for the beast beside her. A small thing it may be, how they further appreciate nature due to her, but H’aanit is glad for it all the same.

H’aanit had sought her master’s whereabouts, and along the way, ended up with the finest family one could ever hope to find.